The Hilltop (14 page)

“It's over, that's it,” Asher said a few seconds later. Ricki turned to see her two angels unfazed, lost in their dreams.

“They didn't even notice,” she said to Asher, and he, his heart pounding fast, reiterated, “That's it, it's over.”

“How do you know it's over?”

She was surprisingly calm, although they both knew that her reaction came as no real surprise, that that's how things worked between them. She had been afraid of the unknown, of the danger that lurked, she had been concerned about the artillery shells before actually going to the places where they could possibly fall, as improbable as that may have been. He had been the very opposite and had waved the low-probability card, saying that if something was going to happen, it would, I'm not going to start changing my life now simply because a shell might fall somewhere. But the moment they were caught up in a real scenario, the moment the shell flew through the sky and exploded nearby, she turned matter-of-fact and practical, reacted coolly and with nerves of steel, whereas Asher turned to jelly, quivered like a coward, freaked out, and said things like “I don't know, but I believe so.”

“Based on what?” Ricki asked, but he didn't respond. He looked at her, and she at him, half smiling, her lips pulled back slightly, her eyes expressing a measure of disbelief, as if to challenge him, as if to say, You're merely trying to calm yourself down, you have no idea if another shell will fall or not. She turned her eyes back to the road, perhaps sensing something, an unwanted presence, and he followed suit, perhaps noticing in that instant the glimmer of panic in her eyes, perhaps instinctively slamming his foot down onto the brake pedal before even seeing the cow—large and lost in the middle of the road, having apparently heard the shell and fled for its life, its inquisitive color-blind eyes staring down the pair of lights that approached it, rooted to the spot and unable to process the situation, the noise of the shell still echoing in its ears, the two boys still fast asleep on the backseat, the two parents, widemouthed in shock, hurtling into the large beast that stood in their way.

The cow survived the collision but was later put down, having suffered multiple fractures to its rib cage. The parents were killed on the spot when the engine crumpled in on them. And Asher was right—it was a lone shell, the only one fired that night, launched probably in error, without any precise purpose or direction, a calibration exercise, perhaps, or maybe even simply to intimidate.

*  *  *

The Gam-zu-Le-tova family laid it all on for Gabi. The father of the family—blue-eyed, solidly built, with a large bald spot under his skullcap—took him out for a short morning walk after he spent the night at their home, and said to him, “Listen, I don't know who you are or what you are, but the eye sees and the ear hears, and all your deeds are inscribed in the book. I don't think you're a soldier, and I don't think you know where you want to go, and I don't know who or what you are running from. But you have nothing to fear here. As we say, ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.' ” Gabi didn't understand. What shadow of death? What's that eye and ear thing all about?

“We welcome any Jew with open arms,” the man continued. “You can stay here as long as you like, we'll give you food and a bed. If you want to stay longer, we may be able to set you up in one of the trailers for singles. We always need help with guarding, construction, gardening work. Just tell me one thing—are you in trouble with the law or something?”

Gabi didn't like the speech he was being subjected to, but couldn't really fathom more favorable circumstances—a distant and remote location, someone who was willing to host him despite knowing he was an impostor. But something about the man bothered him. And something about the place annoyed him. Perhaps the man reminded him too much of the adults on the kibbutz—meddlesome, holier-than-thou, with that air of arrogance and absolute self-assurance of those who believe they know best and are amused by the efforts of others to question them. He shook his head. No, he wasn't in trouble with the law.

He joined the family for another dinner. He went on to spend two more nights on a mattress on the floor in the children's room, oblivious to their crying at night and the pitter-patter of their feet in the morning and their banging on the table and the crashing to the floor of their toys; he didn't even notice David's inquisitive efforts to pet his head and pry open one of his eyelids. He slept undisturbed almost until noon, when he opened his eyes to a quiet and empty home, raided the refrigerator and bread box, took a long shower, dressed again in the IDF uniform and Palladium boots, dug around in the pockets of the army pants, found a
Noblesse, crumpled and bent but not broken, smoothed it out between his fingers, pulled out a box of matches, lit the cigarette, looked around room, and thought.

Finishing off the cigarette, he threw the butt into the remains of a cup of coffee in the kitchen sink and listened to it fizzle to its death. Then he went into the parents' room, rummaged through the drawers, found 600 shekels tucked away in a prayer book, looked around, pocketed the money, placed a bag on his shoulder, and headed out in the direction of the gate to the settlement. He hated the place—but, as the saying goes, he had made the best of it.

R
oni was called in for a chat ahead of solo-orienteering week. They wanted to make things easier for him, they expressed understanding for his unique family situation. But they laid it out straight for him nevertheless. You have your adoptive parents, who've already returned from abroad. There's the kibbutz. An entire network has taken charge and is concerned and searching. You can't be responsible for everything. You can't wander the country high and low and expect to find one specific individual in a population of four million—particularly someone who is obviously in hiding and doesn't want to be found. What are the chances? You have commitments, they said. Be thankful you aren't in a regular unit, which wouldn't afford you these special leaves of absence. So, come on, Roni, get ahold of yourself. We have missions and duties to carry out, training and exercises. We have a week of solo orienteering. Roni nodded. Yes, yes, I know. I'm sorry for not being myself of late, it's just the whole story, you know. Yes, we know, they said, but . . .

Yes, Roni replied. He'd get his act together, he'd complete the orienteering drill in first place, he'd show everyone the real Roni Kupper. He thought about all the time wasted, all the traveling, without even getting close to a single lead. He didn't have a clue about where to go, where to try. He had thought initially about contacting the police, but in
a call from abroad, Dad Yossi told him in no uncertain terms to refrain from speaking with them, so he carried on wandering around with a photograph of his brother, along with a basic description, although the Golani uniform and pin were probably discarded by then. And while he knew his chances were slim, he needed those hours on the road—to feel remorse, to cry, to think about the mistakes he had made, about the years spent distancing himself, about Yifat, the fucking bitch.

Dad Yossi and Mom Gila didn't move up their scheduled return from Europe by a single minute, despite the fact that Roni called them at their hotel on the second night (out of twelve) to tell them that Gabi had disappeared, and continued to call them almost every evening, asking them to return, begging almost, and becoming very angry. Yossi, at the hotel, asked Gila, and Gila let out a smoky chuckle and shook her head from side to side and asked, “Can you see what I'm doing? Can you see me? Do you know the meaning of this motion?” Neither Gabi nor anyone else was going to interrupt her trip. She barely showed any interest at all, while Yossi rushed every day to check for a message in the lobby, or worriedly scratched his gray head.

But the moment they returned to the kibbutz, Yossi took charge of things and set up a search command center in his and Gila's room. He didn't involve the police—it's an internal matter—but decided to release Gabi's photograph and description to the
Davar
newspaper, and it wasn't long before people began calling and offering conflicting reports. He was seen in Kiryat Ata, Eilat, Herzliya, Tiberias, and Be'er Tuvia. He was seen sporting a beard, wearing a hat, dressed in the uniform of the Israeli Air Force, wearing an elegant gray suit. Roni offered to check out all the leads himself, but Dad Yossi convinced him to return to his unit to do the week of orienteering, while he, the father, got on a bus and traveled south to Gila's brother in Kibbutz Revivim, stopping along the way at all the places mentioned in the reports, and then heading down to Eilat.

Roni decided to spend the weekend before the orienteering drill at the kibbutz, to rest and clear his head, but instead he clouded it with large quantities of Goldstar beer and a drunken and unexpected episode, the details of which he was unable to recall afterward, with the beautiful Orit
from his class at school, who was serving at the time at an air force base and had a pilot boyfriend who was on duty for the weekend. He woke late on Saturday and then went over to the command center to check for an update on the situation.

Roni returned on Sunday to his base, and from there, everyone got on a bus and headed south. His unit commander sat alongside him for part of the ride, and asked how he was doing, and how the search was going, he had seen the notice in
Davar
at his kibbutz, has anyone responded? He was pleased Roni had made it, reminded him that orienteering week was important, part of a large-scale military exercise that the chief of staff would be monitoring. Their unit had a vital role to play in the drill, locating the objectives and leading the forces, and it was important to him for Roni to be involved. He knew Roni was talented, that he could do it, but he had to remain focused. It was an opportunity for Roni to put recent events behind him, he said—he understood just how tough things had been—adjust his mind-set, and reestablish himself as a part of the unit, which loved and embraced him.

The officer then stood and addressed everyone via the bus's microphone. “Until now, guys, it's all been a joke, child's play. Believe me. What have you done so far? Fitness drills? Firing range exercises? Standing battle orders? Parachuting? Courses and lessons? Forget them. They're child's play. What we're about to do today is what we live for—reconnaissance. Functioning as a commando unit. Patrolling ahead of the forces, navigating, leading the way. All through unknown territory, and at the risk of being discovered. That's why we're going down to the Negev, to an area in which we haven't worked much at all. When this personnel carrier lets out its
pssst
and you step through that door, I want you to show the world what the Golani commando unit is all about. You'll be getting the orienteering charts. Study them and memorize them until they are etched in your brains, or on your asses, for all I care. Believe me. Come on, go out there and show the world and the chief of staff what you're worth.”

Roni believed him and wanted to show the world, and even the chief of staff, what he was worth. He studied the charts and navigation routes until they were etched in his brain and on his ass. He readied himself in silence, checked his weapon and ammunition and water and snacks and
boots, loaded his equipment on his back, obeyed every instruction, listened to all the briefings, responded to every question, helped his brothers in arms, and headed out—tight-chested, bold-hearted, narrow-eyed, and with good intentions.

He felt good for the first few kilometers. The equipment felt light on his back; his legs carried him almost playfully; he was even enjoying himself. But then a dark shadow began working its way in, into his thoughts and into the depths of his spongy brain. Because ultimately, you're hopeless, you don't stand a chance of repelling it. When you walk through the night for hours and have to remain focused, have to stay awake, you invite them in, the thoughts, you need them to maintain your rhythm, to block out the weight and the burning that starts in your toes and on the soles of your feet, you call to them because you have the time to develop them, to organize them in your overcrowded mind. And then they came flooding back, the mistakes he had made, the years of distancing himself, Yifat the fucking bitch, the tears. He had promised to pull himself together, to finish first, but his mind was consumed and it was difficult to focus.

Roni stopped and drank some water. He must focus. He had prepared for this week. He knew he could do it, and his commander knew he could, too. Gabi would come back. It wasn't his responsibility. Others were dealing with the worrying and searching. Dad Yossi had things under control. And Roni wanted to remain a part of the unit. He retrieved a crumpled Noblesse cigarette from the pocket of his fatigues. Smoking while on orienteering exercises was forbidden, but how else was he going to clear his head? He sat down, leaned back against his equipment, pulled out a match, and lit up. Just one and he'd move on. He could picture the navigation coordinates in his mind. He was doing fine. He was heading in the right direction. The stars were helping him, the compass set him straight. He was going to finish first with ease, he'd show the chief of staff.

He continued walking. The load on his back grew heavier. The navigation coordinates etched into his brain and on his ass began to fade. He stopped to eat something small. To drink. To smoke. To shit. He'd be okay. Despite relieving it of water, food, and cigarettes, the load grew
heavier still. He hadn't seen a member of his unit for quite some time, not that he was supposed to see anyone, but you usually ran into someone, paths crossed, you'd join up and talk for a little while to stave off the boredom and then split up. But that night, not a soul. Here were the stars, here was the compass. He saw lights. What's that? Is it the kibbutz? He was drowning in sweat, he'd take the load off his back for just a moment. He rested. He drank. He wanted to smoke but was all out of cigarettes. Perhaps he should go in, only to ask for a cigarette? It was so hot. He was breathing heavily. It would get a lot hotter after daybreak.